Author's infos

Introduction:

A young girl finds love...we hope.

“I want you to stop being so difficult,” my mom screamed at me as she held my face so fiercely in her hand that I could feel my teeth cutting into the sides of my mouth, “YOU are the problem here! YOU make it so that every moment that could even possibly be pleasant ends up in nothing but shouting, because you are lazy, stupid, and ungrateful! I want you to stop trying to tear this family apart! Stop antagonizing your father! Just do as you’re told! You’re making him this way! You’re trying to make him fall apart!” With that, my mom pushed my head back into the wall; I couldn’t tell what hurt worse, the crack of my head against the bricks, or the amount of hate she seemed to feel toward me. She glared at me like she wished I would die, and walked off into her room and closed the door. I could hear her turn the TV on as tears filled my eyes. I had to get the bathroom floors cleaned, and we were out of Lysol to clean the floors with—that was what I had asked my mom for help with. I had to get them cleaned fast by the time Dad got home, or he was going to take me down in the basement again. He had started doing that more and more over the past few months, and each time was worse than the time before. I wet a towel and got down on my hands and knees to wet-mop the kitchen. I could hardly see through my tears.

Mom was right in a way, though. Over the past year or so, Dad had been getting worse, I thought as I worked. He had developed a hair-trigger temper, and his punishments had gotten worse. He was also drinking more, so it was hard to tell which was causing which. Paul had been my safe haven for a little while, but once he returned to work, I could only manage to sneak away occasionally to be with him. On one level, I knew some of the things we did were wrong, but I loved the physical and emotional attention. And as things got worse, I needed it more and more. The only time my mother talked to me anymore was to yell at me, it seemed, and the only time my father ever touched me was to beat me. It helped to be able to escape away in my mind as I did my chores, to think back over the times I had been alone with Paul for most all of the day. I treasured those times, and did my best to make them keep happening.

Just that past weekend, both Mom and Dad had taken overtime—as long as I had the house straightened and dinner cooked when they got home, I would be as fine as possible. Paul knew my father’s schedule of course, so last weekend, on both days, Paul came over and helped me clean up, and then we went over to his house. On Saturday, he had given me a bubble bath, the second one I’d ever had. He started off by getting me to lie back in the bath, and he gave me a massage. He started by rubbing my neck and shoulders, and gradually included my arms and hands, and did my back as best he could. He finally wasn’t satisfied with how well he could get to me, so he decided to get in with me. He stood up and took off his clothes while I watched. I’d seen him naked before, but more often than not, I didn’t get the chance to really, really look at him. Even as young as I was, he took my breath away, and I felt an incredible rush of excitement at the thought of getting to be so close to him. I loved to look at his cock, and wanted to play with it more than I got to, but Paul said it was too much of a tease to let me do that. I didn’t understand what he meant then; I would apologize for teasing him.

But last Saturday, after he undressed, he climbed into the bathtub behind me, and wanted me to sit between his legs. Instead, I turned around to get a closer look at his cock. It was already hard, and before Paul could object, I wrapped both my hands around it, and started to stroke him like he taught me to. Paul groaned and laughed, and tried to push me away, telling me “Not yet…not yet…” but I looked at him with my best pouty eyes and said “please?” Paul finally relented and let me continue, and I stroked him while he sat back and closed his eyes. What I wanted to do was what we’d talked about—what Paul said was a few years off. I wanted to slowly sit down on that big cock, to have him slide slowly inside me, to get him as close as possible to me. I wanted to please him by sliding up and down on him like the women in the magazines I knew he had in his closet. I wanted him to hold me close and fuck me all night. I wanted to run away with him forever and marry him, but Paul had told me more than once that that would have to wait, too. He had explained to me that, unless I was eighteen, our marriage wouldn’t be legal, and if my parents found out where I was, the authorities would come and take me away from Paul, and give me back to my parents, and it would then be years before he would be able to see me again. That I understood too well. That meant there would be no one to hold me, no one to talk to, no one…and it was too horrible to think about. And Paul wouldn’t fuck me for a while yet, either. That we had discussed, also. Again, he had explained, it was not legal until I was eighteen. He had promised when I had started to protest that he wouldn’t make me wait that long, that he couldn’t wait that long, but that I needed to be a little bit older first. Which brought us to the second facet—Paul’s cock was huge. He explained that many of the women he had slept with had difficulty with taking his cock in, because he was a little bit longer than most men, but he was much thicker than most. As I slid my hands up and down on him in the bathtub, it took both of my hands to get all the way around. Paul said that we would slowly teach me how to take it, but that we would wait a while to start that, too. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but as far as I was concerned, I was willing to do anything he wanted. As long as I got to tease him, that is.

“Oh, fuuuck… Kitten, you’ve got to stop,” Paul said as he pulled my hands away. When he did that, I dipped my head down, partway under the water, and took the head of his cock into my mouth. He liked that, and raised his hips off the bottom of the tub, and I followed his cock up. He grasped the base of his thick cock firmly, and with the other hand moved me off. “Not yet, you little tease,” he said in a low voice, “I promise you’ll get what you want later. I have plans for you right now.” And with that, he started to let some of the water out of the tub. Once it was down a bit, he started the water again, and adjusted the temperature. Once he got it warm enough, he had me lie down, propping my legs on the wall so that the water was landing right between my legs. “Move to get it where you want it,” Paul said, “and let me finish massaging you”. I repositioned myself a little as he started playing with my nipples, and slowly started rubbing my neck and arms, then moving back to my nipples. The feeling was incredible—the warm water fell everywhere on my tiny pussy, brushed my clit back and forth with a force that wasn’t too soft, and was almost too hard. I moaned as I realized the water was also spreading my lips apart…and fucking me. “I’m being fucked by the water”, I thought, “It’s fucking me and licking me…this has to be what it feels like…” And I started to imagine Paul on top of me, pushing into me like the water, spreading me open wide, running his thumb over my clit while we fucked and fucked, and… The first orgasm I had took me by surprise; I gasped and cried out, and felt like I was falling, and all the while the water didn’t stop, and Paul didn’t stop stroking my nipples, and I was begging “don’t stop,” and I begged Paul, and I begged the water, and I begged, and for a brief moment, the thought of having Paul above me, driving down into me hard and fast flashed into my mind, and another wave hit me. I don’t know what I said, or how much sense it made, but it came again and again, and again, until I couldn’t speak. I just lay whimpering, unable to think, only able to feel. I felt Paul’s mouth on my right nipple, and his hands went down to cup around my ass as he spread my lips open so that the water pummeled everywhere on me, ran everywhere in me, and I was being held open wide while the water rushed down, and I realized that Paul’s cock was right over my face. I reached up and gently brought it down to my mouth, so that I could kiss him in any way possible. I just wanted to feel him against my lips and in my mouth, and he let me. Just as I got the underside of his shaft against my mouth, he growled into my nipple, and that sent shivers down to my clit, which was now exposed and vulnerable to the water’s onslaught. It occurred to me then that Paul was mine. All mine. And he could hurt me if he wanted to—he was bigger than my father by far—but he didn’t want to; he wanted only to please me and protect me, he was so gentle, and he was mine… And with that realization, another orgasm broke hard over me, and I felt his fingers sliding with the water slowly toward my inner lips, and I realized he was going to try to gently finger fuck me, just barely inside, while the water licked and fucked me, and I screamed with pleasure into his cock, which made him start to throb against my lips. I knew without words that he was about to come. I also knew that, if I could speak, if I wanted to, I could tell him to wait. And I knew that he would. He would wait because he was mine; he would wait if I asked even though I could feel how badly he wanted it. Because he was perfect and kind and gentle and… I was overtaken with another barrage of orgasms, one right after the other, until I passed out.

When I woke up, we were in Paul’s bed, wrapped around each other. He held me and kissed me, told me I was beautiful, and told me that he loved me. He kept me close to him until it was time that I went back home.

On Sunday, once we got to his house I asked if we could go back to his bed. He was willing to, and he undressed me slowly and gently, kissing me everywhere. We stayed there all day, until I had to leave, kissing, talking, and cuddling…even eating lunch in bed. When it was close to the time that I had to go, Paul held me tight and close, and rocked me as he told me how much he loved me, how he didn’t want me to leave. I didn’t want to leave either. As he wrapped me up in his loving words, I realized that he was crying.

It was times like these that I thought of as I worked at home. After I had finished the floors, I went to check on how dinner was coming, and heard the TV still on in the master bedroom. I figured I was safe from any more confrontations with Mom for the time being, so I went to go wipe the cocktail table in the living room down with Pledge, since scuffs, or any marks would be noticed by Dad and would end with me down in the basement for a few hours. He would sit there drinking, I thought as I wiped, looking at the scuff, getting angrier and angrier by the second, until he was in a black rage. Sometimes it was a mark made by his own glass or beer can, and I think those times he was just looking for an excuse. His beatings had always been bad, but they were getting worse; more frequent, more unplanned but at the same time as if he were lying in wait for an opportunity. It was very hard to describe. One of his favorite methods of beating me had always been to follow me, hitting me with his hand or belt, or some other object, until I had run out of anywhere to go-until he had me cornered. Another favorite was to make me stand still, or lie down, or put my hands somewhere and not be allowed to move while he beat me. Recently, he had added something new to his repertoire; about three months before, he had chased me into the basement, and told me to grab his large barbell, the one that sat on the floor by his weightlifting bench. I knew he was going to beat me, he’d made me grab it before. But this time, when I grabbed it and heard him rush toward me from behind, he wrapped duct tape around my wrists, and fastened my hands to the barbell’s center pole. I don’t know how much it weighed, but it was too heavy for me to lift, too heavy to be anywhere but on the floor, even. And the barbell had a small stand that supported the weighted ends so it wouldn’t roll. It wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was I. He kicked my legs out from under me, and then kicked me several more times, on my sides, my legs…I tried to move, but I couldn’t. He took some coated wire cable from the shelf, unwrapped it, and started whipping me with it. I screamed, I pleaded for him to stop, but he wouldn’t. Sometimes, after he had broken me down to sobs, if I asked, “Daddy, I’m sorry; please stop,” he would. That night, it had made him angrier. He wasn’t concerned about anyone hearing us; first of all, the houses around were fairly well spread apart. Second of all, screams coming from our house, if anyone did hear, was old news. Third, we were unlikely to be heard in the basement, even upstairs. So when he came back down on me and put duct tape over my mouth, I was stunned and terrified enough that I froze. That gave him enough time to easily grab my ankles and duct tape them together, also. Then he got his heavy leather belt off the wall—he had started keeping it on the wall down there a while back—and beat me with that until I was almost choking on my own tears. It was hard to breathe through my nose, because it had gotten stuffed up from crying. I was starting to panic. Then he switched back from the belt to the wire. It stung horribly on the welts the belt had raised; everywhere it struck felt like a cold fire was burning its way into my body. The T-shirt and shorts I was wearing were no protection, if they even were still on me. And all the while he was beating me, he was screaming at me that I was worthless and stupid, that he hated me, that he was going to make me pay…after a while, I couldn’t even understand what he was screaming. I was so sure that he was really going to kill me that night that I almost wet my pants; the only reason I didn’t is because if I had, that would have given him the excuse he needed to kill me. I knew he was just looking for an excuse.

I never told Paul about some of the things that happened to me because they were too humiliating for me to even think about. That night was one of those things.

For that reason, when I cleaned I was extra-careful to not make any mistakes. That night, when Dad got home, he and Mom ate fairly quietly. Paul didn’t come with Dad because it was Wednesday, and they worked different shifts. I could tell there was something wrong with Mom, but I couldn’t tell what it was. It was like something had happened between them that I didn’t know about. They talked about his work, about hers. Little things. I ate a little bit in the kitchen, like I always did; it was just an understanding as old as time that I didn’t get to eat with them unless there was company there. I didn’t mind. I didn’t get beaten that night, though I did get slapped a few times; once because I walked in front of the TV when I was bringing my Dad another beer, things like that. In general, it was a good night, though my Mom was unusually quiet. After they had gone into their bedroom for the evening, I started cleaning up after dinner, because they said I made too much noise while they were trying to talk or think or watch TV. And that night, after I cleaned the kitchen I started on the living room. My father had left his work jacket on the sofa in the living room where he always threw it. I picked it up, and as I went down the hall toward their bedroom to hang it by their door, I heard something that made my heart stop and my blood run cold. Something I had never heard before. I heard my Mom’s voice—it had to be Mom only because there was no way it could have been Dad—her voice sounded unfamiliar, unearthly, and broke off in a whine that I can only describe as terror. I heard her say, “Oh, God, no, please, noooooo” And then my father said something too low to make out.

I was too scared to move, too scared to not move. I didn’t hear anything else coming out of their room. I stood, frozen, terrified that the door would swing open at any moment, but afraid of what might be happening if the door didn’t open. I waited for what seemed like a year, and then I heard movement. I heard them having sex.

The next morning, Mom met me in the kitchen and told me I would not be going to school again that day. By that point, I think the school board had stopped caring, if they ever cared to begin with. I was startled by her. She looked the same. A little depressed, but that wasn’t abnormal. She was wearing her work clothes, and I set out breakfast as Dad came out, also dressed for work. I knew since I was staying home that I would get to spend about three hours with Paul in between when he came home from work and when Dad came home from work, and I might see him at my house that night, too. Dad wanted me to pull some boxes down from the attic and garage and set them out at the curb for pickup, as well as my usual chores. They ate breakfast and left, and I noticed Mom didn’t say much, if anything to Dad. She’d mainly kept looking down, even when she was talking to me.

I got the boxes down easily enough, and finished my chores quickly because I had something I wanted to do. I had just been waiting for a good time, and this was as good a time as any. Since Paul wasn’t available yet, I wanted to see if I could feel the same way playing in the bathtub by myself. It wouldn’t be as good without him I figured, but after falling asleep last night scared, fantasizing about him holding me, I was wet and aroused. I took off my clothes and started the bath, making sure I didn’t engage the stopper. I got the water warm enough, and lay down in the tub, with my legs against the wall. Instantly, I felt the same surge of lust; the water beat down on my clit hard, softly pounded my lips apart, and started licking its way into me. I thought of Paul, how I wanted to make him beg me to let him fuck me. How, when he had decided I was old enough, when we were far away from here, I was going to dress in something sexy, like some of the girls in his magazines, and tease him. I brought my hands to my nipples and started to play with them while I thought about how I was going to tell him that he had made me wait long enough, and now I was going to make him wait. I would tell him that I wanted him to lick me first, and after he made me come once, I would tell him to do it again. I know he would. And after that, again. And again. Until he was shaking with desire. And I thought of his mouth on me as the water flowed, making me come over and over, I thought of his mouth on me while he kneeled, with his hard cock begging for release. And I would tell him that he was not allowed to come yet; that the next time he was allowed to come, it had to be inside me, after he had given me my first good, long, hard fuck, and I would make him keep licking. I imagined me on his bed—our bed, now—and him kneeling in front of me, and I came. And I thought of his cock standing hard, untouched, begging to come, but him obeying me…and I came again. And I thought of him licking me to orgasm over and over, wanting my tight, wet body stretched around his dick more than anything else in the world, but obeying me by licking me until I said stop…and I came again. I lay in the bathtub as the water gushed over my clit, and I imagined it was his tongue—obedient, unfailing—hoping that, if he got me hot enough, I would let him have me. I thought about his hands cupping my ass and his fingers as they spread across the entrance to my pussy, slowly trying to work their way in just a little, to tease me, to make me want more…and I came. And in my fantasy, I had just ordered him to lick me to orgasm one more time. I could tell that this was going to have to be the last time, because he was about to come despite not playing with his big cock, so I was deciding as he licked if I wanted to just surprise him and slide down onto his cock, or make him get up on the bed and ride him, or if I wanted to let him take the lead and be on top this time. And as his tongue was running over my clit, faster and faster, I decided that I wanted him on top. In my fantasy, I was pulling on my nipples gently, on the edge of my biggest orgasm yet. And I was teasing him by telling him as he made low hungry noises into my clit that I thought we were going to have to lick me one more time unless he could make this a good one. So he sped up his tongue over my clit, and I raised my hips to the faucet, and in my mind it was one of his fingers slowly pushing into me. And I felt that pulse-like beat start in my clit in time to the fall of the water, in time with his tongue. “Oh, God, this is it,” I thought, “Paul…don’t stop!” And I came, harder than I had ever come before, hoping it would never end. He could have me now, I thought…if only I was older; if only we were far, far away… I let the water run over me as I lazily dreamt of what I would do with him the first time, when he was truly, totally mine to play with, any way I saw fit.

And then I was suddenly jolted back to the present as the water ran ice cold. My eyes shot open, and I felt fear shoot through my body as I stared into my father’s eyes. His hand was on the temperature controls. “Thought I needed to throw a little cold water on you, bitch,” he growled, “what in the fuck do you think you’re doing, you little whore?” I couldn’t speak; my mouth, my whole body, was frozen with fear.

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Ok…same as before; if five people want more, I’ll write more on this one.